The Way Old Jack Likes It

A horror poem about a man you never want to be left alone with.

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Dead plants, rotting flowers,

Dusty jars, spider’s webs

Is the way Old Jack likes it.

Black and white films after dark,

Cracked pavements, broken bones

Is the way Old Jack likes it.

Scratched records, shards of glass,

Frayed nerves, dried blood

Is the way Old Jack likes it.

Dug graves under the patio,

Pulled hair, ripped dresses

Is the way Old Jack likes it.

Animals in jars, collected relics,

Screams swallowed in the musky alley

Is the way Old Jacob likes it.

Just sit there quiet on his creaking armchair

As he gives you the kiss of death.

That’s the way Old Jack likes it.